Wings of the Morning
by Figlia Della Musica
Summary: Slash Duncan/Methos. The boyz build a relationship.
1. Duncan

Title: Wings of the Morning--Duncan  
  
Author: Figlia Della Musica  
  
Series: Wings of the Morning 1/?  
  
Pairing: Duncan/Methos  
  
Timeframe: whenever, I don't know. I might decide later.  
  
Summary: Duncan wakes up.  
  
Warnings: slash, mush  
  
Rating: PG-11 they don't do anything bad, but they're nekkid in bed.  
  
Archive: OnlyDuncanMethos, anywhere else sure but just ask me first  
  
Author's comments: This story got started while I was waiting to get picked up from a theatre rehearsal. My ride was half an hour late, and had my notebook with me. Writer's Block has been defeated at last!  
  
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them. If I owned them, well, the series would be a bit different….  
  
NOTE: Keep track of the chapter title. The POV changes and it is noted in the chapter.  
  
++++++++++  
  
Awareness. Bright light. Morning. Lying on my side. Smooth skin under my head. I blink my eyes open, squinting into the early-morning sunlight streaming through the portholes of the barge. The pale skin my head rests upon covers a smooth, muscled chest. Attached to said chest are two arms, long and pale, which are wrapped around me. Two legs also spring from the torso I rest upon. I can feel them under the covers, wrapped around my own pedal appendages. I hesitate, though, to look at the head of the person I'm sleeping with. Not because he's ugly, understand, but because I'm afraid that if I look at him, I'll wake him up, and if I wake him up, he'll panic and leave. He has a known propensity for panicking and running—and never being found again. And I so desperately do not want to lose him.  
  
I stare, though, at his sleeping face, finally, when I work up the courage to look at it. He's so beautiful, asleep. His youthful face gives lie to the centuries he's lived, innocent and open. He reminds me of a particularly beautiful Greek statue I saw once—smooth cheekbones, high and not quite angular, elegant. I feel temptation building in me, and I resist it, because looking at him might not wake him up, but this certainly will. I cannot, however, resist, and I run my fingers across his forehead, through his spiky, silky dark hair, down his jaw, feeling a slight rasp of stubble, over the high planes of his face, down his aquiline nose, and finally across his lips.  
  
His eyes flutter open. Damn. I've awakened him, and those eyes looking at me draw me in, and I'm lost in changeable shifting pools of color. This morning, they're golden-brown like good whiskey, and I'm entranced and I remember how last night, his mouth and his skin tasted so intoxicating, more than the best alcohol. Now those eyes devour me and I can't read his face—it's not shuttered, he's not trying to hold back, but I'm so afraid and so hopeful and so confused that I can't read him without feeding my own feelings in and what I see changes every second with the emotion foremost in my own mind. His hand reaches out to where mine still rests against his cheek, close to his mouth, covering my hand with his and holding it softly against his face.  
  
"MacLeod?" he asks. "I'm not dreaming?" His voice, oh God, his voice reflects my emotions, fear and hope and uncertainty and something else I can't describe, can't name. Something Alexa called forth in him, while I watched from the sidelines and tried not to show my longing and tried to quiet my seemingly impossible dreams.  
  
"No," I reply, and my voice is almost a whisper, I'm so afraid of what he's going to say next. "You're not dreaming, Methos."  
  
"I must be," he says, closing his eyes, and my heart sinks with his words. Then he continues. "I must be dreaming. I'm asleep, in my bed in my flat, and I'm dreaming I'm in bed with Duncan MacLeod and gods help me I don't want to wake up, just want to go on dreaming forever…" He trails off, and my heart just about bursts because he wants this!  
  
"You're not dreaming," I say, stroking his cheek gently, "or if you are, I'm dreaming with you, and I never want to stop." My voice is an urgent whisper, and I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the rich scent of skin, letting my hands rest on his shoulders.  
  
"MacLeod?" His hands lift my head up, slowly, until his eyes fix once again on mine. "Did you just tell me you… you want this?" He falters and the hope and fear in his eyes had reached a fever pitch.  
  
"Yes," I say, taking his hands in mine and bowing my head over them. "Oh God, Methos, I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."  
  
His closes his eyes, and his lips move. I think he might be praying, then his eyes open again and focus on me, and he says, "So do I, Duncan." It's the first time he's called me by my given name, and the sound of it on his lips, in his voice, makes me want to shout for joy.  
  
I don't. I just whisper, so softly, "Stay with me, Methos. Stay with me, forever. I love you too much for you to leave again."  
  
His eyes get very round, and I think he might almost cry, but he murmurs back, chokingly, "I love you too, Duncan. Yes, I'll stay."  
  
It's all I need to hear, and we drift back to sleep holding each other. 


	2. Methos

Title: Wings of the Morning--Methos  
  
Author: Figlia Della Musica  
  
Series: Wings of the Morning, 2/?  
  
Pairing: Duncan/Methos  
  
Timeframe: I don't know. Pick one.  
  
Summary: Methos wakes up.  
  
Warnings: slash, mush  
  
Rating: PG-11 no nookie, but they're in bed nekkid  
  
Archive: anywhere else sure but just ask me first  
  
Author's comments: pay attention to chapter titles—they tell the POV  
  
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them.  
  
++++++++++  
  
Duncan falls asleep again, after our whispered declarations of love. His head rests on my shoulder, and his arms are wrapped around my neck, holding onto me. I stay awake, enjoying the sensations, and thinking.  
  
Between one day and the next, everything changed. Yesterday, we were friends. Oh, I'd harbored a secret longing for the Highlander for a few years, but I couldn't find the courage to tell him. Everything was too tenuous before, as though a touch would shatter our careful peace and we'd be after each other's heads.  
  
I have my brothers to thank for that. Kronos, Silas, and Caspian were supposed to be dead and gone. Okay, when I really thought about it—which I did maybe once every few centuries, that's not something one generally ruminates at length upon—I never expected Kronos to really die. He was too canny, too smart, to Challenge someone who could beat him, and he was too good for someone to get a temporary advantage over him. Caspian I expected to die, because he never had as much sense. He was too indiscriminately bloodthirsty—I'd always expected him to kill someone just a little too brutally and end up with a full-fledged hunt on his tail. Silas, without provocation from the rest of us, would become peaceful. He's a gentle soul deep inside, I think, who just got a little too close to the corruption that Kronos was, the depravity Caspian was, and the manipulative anger that I was. Killing him hurt.  
  
And the pain of Silas' death, the pain of all their deaths—for they were my brothers, even so long estranged—all that pain and on top of it, my Highlander decided that he didn't like me so much. Technically we made up, but there was this tension, this niggling discomfort whenever we were in the same place together. And yet, at the same time, a sense of coming home. Ever since the Double Quickening—everything goes back to that, doesn't it?—ever since Duncan and I took Kronos' Quickening together, we've had a high sensitivity to each other, and when he could barely stand looking at me, and I was so afraid around him, it was almost torture, but being apart stretched that sensitivity, that almost-link, so we were constantly back-and-forth. Until last night.  
  
I'd come to the barge to say hello, to be social, and Duncan greeted me with more bounce than usual. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, and I'd wondered at it. We talked of not much important: Dr. Seuss, the weather, TV, and beer vs. whiskey. Amanda came up once or twice, and the seeming hilarity of her pairing up with an ex-cop of all things. Duncan didn't seem particularly let down that she had a new boyfriend, and that surprised me.  
  
He'd watched me intently as we talked, but I didn't notice for… actually, I just realized it. All yesterday evening, I was so tense from being near him, wanting him and trying not to show it. And he was tense too, but again, that's something I've just realized, now that he's asleep and I'm relaxed. It was so easy, too; last night, I asked Duncan why he didn't mind Amanda's new boyfriend. He told me he had an interest in someone else, too, and my heart sank a little—a new lover would be likely to take up so much of his attention and damnit, *I* wanted that attention, all to myself.  
  
But I couldn't tell him that, I had to be polite, so I asked who. And the next part is why I still think I'm dreaming.  
  
I said, "So who is this new person who's distracted you so completely from Amanda?"  
  
Duncan got the most sexy, sensual look on his face, pulled me close to him, and whispered, "You," right before kissing me harder, deeper, and longer than I think anyone else ever has.  
  
Startled doesn't even begin to describe how I felt—and still feel, for that matter. Surprised, nope. Pleasantly shocked, not even close. Floored, maybe. Absolutely stunned and amazed and out of my mind because I had to be dreaming… yeah, that about hits it.  
  
Duncan stirs in my arms, and I stroke his long hair, running my fingers through it.  
  
"Methos?" he mumbles sleepily.  
  
"Yes? I'm right here."  
  
Duncan's eyes open, and I know I'm not dreaming, because if I was dreaming I'd explode, there's so much feeling, so much caring and affection and… dare I say it? So much love. 


	3. Joe

Title: Wings of the Morning 3/?--Joe  
  
Author: Figlia Della Musica  
  
Series: Wings of the Morning  
  
Pairing: Duncan/Methos  
  
Timeframe: whenever you want it to be. I really don't know.  
  
Summary: Joe finds out.  
  
Warnings: slash, mush  
  
Rating: PG simply because having a G slash story is no fun.  
  
Archive: anywhere else sure but just ask me first  
  
Author's comments: Don't try to figure out just what this section has to do with anything. I just had to write something.  
  
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them.  
  
++++++++++  
  
I'm setting up, getting ready for the day's first comers when they enter. Mac, as expected--he likes to show up early when there's not much going on. What I didn't expect was for Methos to be right behind him. The old man hasn't been on very good terms with Mac lately--ever since the Horsemen, really. I mean, they're always so tense, so restrained, like two Immies who have just met each other and are half-waiting for a Challenge. They still moon over each other--that hasn't changed no matter what's been going on, and I don't think it's going to--but they weren't *comfortable*.  
  
Today, though, it's all changed. They're smiling at each other, laughing, chatting. I've never seen Mac this carefree around anyone... yes I have. Tessa. He was like that with Tessa. Does that mean they've finally slept together? I hope so. Their little covert glances at each other, totally oblivious, the way Mac jumps when Methos comes up in conversation--and the way Methos jumps when Mac's the topic. I hope they don't think they're being discreet.  
  
But anyway, that's how they are. I'm still thinking, trying to decide if they really did go and sleep together or if aliens abducted them and sent down replacements. If so, I'd have to track down those aliens and thank them. Gone are the brooding Highlander and the buried-in-a-bottle Ancient. They're like a couple of schoolboys, playing around.  
  
"Hey, Mac. Hey, Old Man," I greet them. "What's up?"  
  
Methos looks at Mac and sniggers, and I know. Yup, they've slept together. The only people who take that line as a pun are those who have just finished the horizontal tango. Thank God. They've spent so long circling around each other that it was starting to drive a certain poor Watcher crazy.  
  
"Nothing much," Mac replies, his ears slightly pink. He's glaring at Methos for the snigger, and trying to pretend like he's not.  
  
"We just came in to be social," Methos adds, slouching onto his barstool.  
  
"And drink lots and lots of beer," I finish for him. "Someday, I'm going to make you pay your tab, Old Man."  
  
Methos puts the back of his hand against his forehead in mock horror. "Not that! Not the bar tab! How could you be so cruel?"  
  
Mac and I laugh. "I'm a Watcher," I say. "Comes with the territory."  
  
"Um, hey, scuse me, what the hell is this on my wrist, then?" Methos holds out his wrist, which still has the Watcher tattoo. "I'm not cruel." He turns to Mac. "Am I cruel, MacLeod?"  
  
"No, you're not cruel... never anytime that I'm going to talk about in front of my Watcher, that is," Mac replies with a grin.  
  
"Hey!" I grumble. "Mac, that's not fair. We had it all worked out. You tell me what goes on, I don't follow you around. If you're going to start hiding stuff from me, we'll just see how you like getting shadowed like every other Immortal on the planet." Actually, I have a pretty good idea what he's talking about, and it's not something I'm interested in Watching. Or just plain old watching, for that matter. I'm not super-intrusive like some Watchers are. Some of them... well, Mac's Chronicle gets a *lot* more detailed about certain facets of his life than I'm interested in getting. There's a difference between a Watcher and a voyeur, after all.  
  
Mac just looks at me, and I can tell he knows I won't really start tailing him. For one thing, it's hard to do that and not be really painfully obvious. Most of the Watchers who can get away with that are young and fairly ordinary, people you don't notice. Not a fifty-year-old Bluesman with no legs.  
  
They're both sitting at the bar, and is it my imagination, or has Mac's stool migrated a little closer to Methos' than normal? And is the Old Man leaning just a little bit towards the Highlander? I watch them both for a while longer as I set up and take care of the first customers, and yup, not only did they sleep together but now they're basically having to restrain themselves from cuddling in public. Oh boy. My life as a Watcher is going to get much more interesting, I think. 


	4. Duncan

Title: Wings of the Morning--MacLeod  
  
Author: Figlia Della Musica  
  
Series: Wings of the Morning part IV  
  
Pairing: Duncan/Methos  
  
Timeframe: whenever  
  
Summary: Nothing happens. This is buildup for the next one  
  
Warnings: slash, mush  
  
Rating: G. They do nothing.  
  
Archive: anywhere else sure but just ask me first  
  
Author's comments: Very pointless and boring. The next one will be better  
  
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them.  
  
++++++++++  
  
The day goes by fast. Late in the morning, Methos and I haul ourselves out of bed and get breakfast, and after a leisurely me we head over to Joe's, which is just opening.  
  
For years now, I've watched Methos sprawl on his bar stool and I've wanted to just grab him. The temptation is even harder to ignore now, because I've tasted him, I have an idea of what it would be like to just grab him here and now. Methos himself doesn't help--he keeps shooting me these burning glances that make me want to grab him off his barstool and.... He's going to get it when we get back to the barge.  
  
Which brings up another thought. How far are we going to take this? I love Methos, I have for a while, and I think it would make me happier than anything else if he stayed with me, but what is this all to him? He admitted last night that he likes this, but there's no guarantee that means anything. With him, it might just be enough to inspire a famous Methos disappearance.  
  
Suddenly I have a burning need to talk to him about this before we go any further, before I fall even more.  
  
After a while, we leave Joe to his blues and head back to the barge. It's a pleasant day and we're walking, so there's plenty of time to think.  
  
"Methos," I say as we draw near the barge. "We need to talk."  
  
He turns to look at me worriedly. "What about, MacLeod?"  
  
MacLeod. Last night he called me Duncan. "Us." I glance over at him, trying to gauge how he feels. His face is stiff, a mask. "I want to talk about us, Methos."  
  
"What about us?"  
  
My heart sinks. From the look on his face and the tone of his voice, he is not interested in an "us." From the way he sounds, I have to believe he's not planning on changing his disappear-after-a-quick-visit routine.  
  
I shake my head. "Never mind."  
  
"MacLeod."  
  
I turn. Methos has stopped and is standing twenty feet behind me. His face has lost its mask, and he looks worried, afraid.  
  
"What, Methos?"  
  
"What were you going to say?"  
  
"I..." I look at him closely, trying to figure out how I feel. I love him, but I'm feeling almost angry. If he wants there to be an "us" he shouldn't be acting so weird, and if he doesn't, he should just say so.  
  
"I want to talk about us," I finally say lamely.  
  
He regards me quietly for an instant. "You're asking me if I want there to be an `us,'" he says calmly, but it's a question underneath. "Aren't you."  
  
I nod. "Yes."  
  
"Let's go back to the barge," Methos suggests, stepping up next to me. "It'll be easier to talk there than here."  
  
I nod again. "Okay."  
  
We walk the rest of the way to the barge in silence. 


	5. Duncan

Title: Wings of the Morning--MacLeod

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning 5/?

Pairing: Duncan/Methos

Timeframe: Take your pick

Summary: A talk

Warnings: slash, mush

Rating: G they just talk

Archive:  anywhere else sure but just ask me first

Author's comments: Still pretty boring.  I have problems with this whole plot idea

Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this.  I'm just having some fun with them.

++++++++++

Arriving at the barge, we make ourselves comfortable.  I hand Methos a beer and he flops down on the couch in his usual style.  I pour myself a shot of whiskey and sit beside him.

"So," Methos says.  "Talk."

I glare at him for a moment, then take a deep breath, trying to arrange my thoughts, my formless hopes and fears, in to a form I can manage.

"*Do* you want there to be an 'us?'" I ask, finally.

He's silent for a few moments, thinking.  Hazel eyes search my face intently, as though he can read the answer in my features.

"I'm… afraid," he says finally.  The admission is hard for him to make, that much is obvious, but he's not evading me, not being sarcastic or changing the subject, and that gives me some hope.  

"You have to understand," he continues, "the last time I had a steady relationship with another Immortal, I very nearly lost my head.  It scares me, but…" he takes a deep breath, bracing himself.  "Yes.  I want there to be an 'us,' MacLeod."  He searches my face, looking for my reaction.  "That is, if you want it," he adds.

I hope my reaction shows.  "Yes, Methos," I say, "I want it."  I want it so badly I'll chase him to the ends of the earth if need be, but I don't say that; it's the one thing guaranteed to make him run.  Methos reminds me of a half-tame cat—approach him slowly, make no sudden or unexpected moves, and always be somewhere he can see you, and he'll let you close, but startle him, come at him too quickly, make him even vaguely nervous, and you'll never see him again.

He seems to accept my words, pondering them for a minute, then comes up with a comment in true Methosian style.  "Okay, now that we've decided that there is, in fact, an 'us,' we can talk about it."

Someday, I'm going to write a book that will be composed entirely of Methos-quotes.  It'll be called "Methosisms" and I'll bet anything it'll be a bestseller.

I lean over and take one of his hands in mine.  It's cool, and I think it's shaking a little.  He's scared, all right.  "Methos," I say softly, "I want you to stay with me.  I don't mean moving in, precisely," I hasten to add as he tenses, "but I mean around here.  Don't just stay for a few days and disappear like you usually do.  Stay here, where I can see you, talk to you, be near you."  I'd *like* him to stay with me, to move in with me—I've loved him a while now, and the times he's stayed on the barge or at the loft with me have been heavenly—but if I say that, he'll disappear so fast I won't even see the door open.

His eyes have never left my face, and their searching intensifies.  Abruptly, Methos drops his gaze to his hand, still clasped between both of mine, seeming even paler and more slender compared to my duskier skin and thicker fingers.  

"MacLeod," he says, "I…"  He stops and his eyes fasten on mine again, like torpedoes, golden-brown and endlessly deep.  "I'll stay.  I won't go off disappearing without good reason.  That much, I think I can give you.  But…"  And his eyes focus on me even more than they had before, until I'm almost drowning in their depths.

I wet suddenly dry lips.  "But what?"


	6. Methos

Title: Wings of the Morning--Methos

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning 6/?

Pairing: Duncan/Methos

Timeframe: Whenever

Summary: Duncan and Methos finish their little talk

Warnings: slash, mush

Rating: G

Archive:   sure but just ask me first

Author's comments: Now, I need some feedback. This could be the end of the series, or I could keep on going ad infinitum.  

Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this.  I'm just having some fun with them.

++++++++++

But what?

Damn it all, that has to be the number-one hardest question to answer, and it doesn't help that I'm already so terrified I'm ready to snatch my hand back and run out the door.  I almost do.

But if I do that, I'll never see Duncan again.  Oh, not that he won't look for me, but it's like what they say about falling off a horse.  The longer you wait before getting back on, the more afraid you get, until even the thought of a horse terrifies you.  If I leave, I'll become more and more afraid of my feelings for my Highlander, until I disappear to Bora Bora at the least sign of him.  I'll spend the rest of my life painfully aware of his absence—the Double Quickening, that odd link in our life forces, will see to that—but I won't be able to do a damned bloody thing about it.

I have to say something.  Even if it's just something simple.  But I can't.  Too much depends on this.  

I've had this odd ability from time to time—not exactly sensing the future, but knowing if something's important.  I felt it at various points throughout my life, times when I could have changed something.  A sense of balancing, like a circus clown that balances a spinning plate on a pole—everything dances on a razor edge, and what I say or don't say, do or don't do, will change the course of my life, Duncan's life, maybe more, forever.  

"Methos?"  The way he says my name—a legato-marcato on the first syllable, accented but held out for full value, and the largo diminuendo on the second, drawing the o and s out for as long as possible.  It sounds like a caress.  For the last fifteen hundred years, so few people have known my true name, and suddenly here's my Highlander, not only knowing and saying my name (which is special in and of itself—he's never understood how much trust that is) but making it sound like a stroke, the sensual motion of sound on ear, skin on skin, so similar.  Even when he says my name quickly, in worry or anger or anything else, he can't help drawing that second syllable out, just a little.  

I have to answer him.  I can feel, in my head, that balancing plate starting to tip—I have to hurry and get the pole directly under it before it falls and shatters.  

"But be sure, MacLeod," I say slowly.  "Be very, very sure this is what you want.  I'm not going to change habits that've kept me alive for five thousand years unless you're willing to make a similar commitment."  I'm in too deep.  If he decides in a year he doesn't want this anymore, I'll be left to pick up the shattered pieces of my heart, and I can't do that.  I've done it too many times already.  

I fully expect him to pull back, to say we should go more slowly.  I force myself to expect that and that only, because this will hurt enough without my hopes up.  

"Methos," Duncan says slowly, and I tense in anticipation of rejection, "I love you.  I want you to understand that fully, and everything that it means."  Oh hell.

"MacLeod, if you're about to say you don't want that much, just say so.  Don't draw it out."  I half-stand up, ready to leave, but I've forgotten that my hand is between his, and he pulls me back down.

"Methos!"  Then he says, more softly, "Dinna leave.  I canna take it.  My heart canna take it."  My Highlander closes his eyes and presses my hand to his forehead, begging me, and I'm shaking now, from too much emotion, fear and hope and love and . . . but that last is all I really need to say, isn't it?  Love.


	7. Methos

Title: Wings of the Morning—Methos                                                             

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning 7/?       

Pairing: Duncan/Methos            

Timeframe:  Whenever (either before or rejecting Archangel)

Summary: Richie returns from a vacation in Greece and finds a surprise in Paris

Warnings: slash, mush, angry Richie      

Rating: PG for a very enjoyable kiss

Archive:  anywhere sure but just ask me first

Author's comments: I had so much trouble writing this one.  I couldn't make Richie believable.

Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this.  I'm just having some fun with them.

+++++++++++

"Now, MacLeod," I say, picking at the label on my beer bottle, "I didn't expect you to truly understand the subtlety involved in a good beer.  You Scots spend all your time numbing your palate with whiskey, it's a wonder you can tell the difference between red and white wine after four hundred years,"  I sigh theatrically.  "You don't taste anything unless it's hundred-proof.  In fact—"

"You talk too much," my lover responds, then kisses me full force, long and hard.  It's his favorite way of making me shut up, and I'm not exactly in the mood to argue—ever.  After a month, we've managed to fit into a very comfortable relationship.  I haven't given up the lease on my apartment yet, but I only stop in there if there's something I really need to pick up.  Somehow, without my noticing, I seem to have managed to relocate most of my possessions to the barge,  despite what Duncan said about "staying" not being the same as moving in.  Not that I mind.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  I've never really enjoyed waking up alone, and, well, I love my Highlander.  

For a few seconds, I just enjoy the kiss, letting my lover control, but then I start to take over, pressing back with demands of my own.  My tongue slips into his mouth, investigating the warm sanctuary there, pushing him backwards slightly as he yields to me, his fingers combing through my short hair.  He runs his hands down to rest on my shoulders as I press more and more demandingly.

That's when I feel the Presence, but I don't aknowledge it at first.  Who would, when the alternative is to kiss Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod senseless?  His mouth is far more interesting than a stranger's blade.

"Mac?  What the hell?"  It's not a Challenge.  It's not a stranger.  It's Richie Ryan.

Duncan breaks the kiss and spins around to face him.  "Richie," he says unsteadily, "when did you get back?"

"Just now," his student replies.  "I got bored and decided to come back to Paris.  And look what I found."  He shifts slightly to glare at me.  "So tell me, old man, did you suggest that trip to Greece to get me out of the way, or was this a spur-of-the-moment decision?"

He thinks I seduced Duncan.  He's clearly not happy with it.  The look on his face… that's not just surprise, not just something that can be talked through.  He's disgusted, horrified.  He's homophobic.

I have to go, I have to leave before Duncan realized the obvious way to fix this breach.  I can see it now, in my mind's eye; he won't say directly, but when Duncan suddenly decides tomorrow that our relationship is maybe a little too much for him, what he will mean is that he can't stand being alienated from Richie and can we just go back to being friends?  

If I have to hear that, I'll die.  I stand up.  "See you tomorrow, Highlander," I say casually.  "I've gotta be rested up for my class tomorrow."

Duncan nods quietly.  "Tomorrow, Methos," he says softly, and I feel my heart start to tear.  He's already started pushing me away.

I can't drive back to the barge: my car is there and Duncan and I came in his.  Fortunately, it's a warm night so I can walk.  When I get there, I let myself in, grab a large duffel bag, and stuff my things into it.  I'd been staying mostly in the barge, but what I'd brought over all fit in one bag.  My SUV is parked by the barge, so I stuff the bag into the backseat and climb in.  Slowly, painfully, I drive back to my flat.  

Gods, I'd hoped it would last longer.  I'd been so happy, so contented, but, I remind myself harshly, all good things must come to an end.  Face with Richie's intense disapproval, Duncan wouldn't be able to go on.  The approval of his Clan is too important to him.  

My flat is overwhelmingly empty.  I don't even bother taking my clothes out of the bag; I just tug out my journal so I can record the latest in a series of regrets.  Curling up on the bed, I start writing.

What happened?  One minute, I'm happy.  My life is going well, I have a lover I adore, he adores me, everything's good.  Now, suddenly, his student comes back and everything's gone.  Duncan—no, MacLeod hasn't been particularly known to like men; I should have been more surprised, more cautious when he and I got into this.  But now, I fell into his arms like a lovesick puppy, and now I'm paying the price.  It's like that song says, how does it go?

I loved you once in silence 

_And misery was all I knew_

_Trying so to keep my love from showing_

_All the while not knowing you loved me too_

_Then one day we cast away our secret longing_

_The raging tide we held inside would hold no more_

_The silence at last was broken_

_We flung wide our prison door_

_Ev'ry joyous word of love was spoken_

_And after all that's been said here we are my love_

_Silent once more and not far my love_

_From where we were before_

Yeah, that's us all right.  I wonder where I should go.  Tibet is a good place to be.  Fifty or a hundred years of meditation should make my heart retreat back to its usual corner.  It's really been getting out of hand recently, making me do all sorts of crazy, suicidal, Boy-Scoutish things.  No, don't think about the Boy Scout, think about anything but him; think about him and you'll go and do something stupid, now, won't you, Methos?  Probably get your head chopped off.  And it's be no more than you deserve…

Yes, that's what I'll do.  I'll leave and never come back.  MacLeod can go back to being his happy heterosexual self, with Richie's complete approval, and "Adam Pierson" will die… car accident, maybe.  Or how about falling off a bridge?

Thinking about how to kill off my current incarnation provides an odd, morbid sort of relief.  Maybe I can fake Immortal Adam's death as well.  It won't be the first time; I've faked my own beheading before.  Be nice to be a fly on the wall when MacLeod finds out.  He'll probably go to Joe's and drink himself to death.

Joe.  Oh, damn.  I can't leave without letting Joe know.  I'll write him a letter, maybe.  He'll understand, surely.  He knows how empty life can be.  Maybe I'll even let him in on the big secret, that he's pre-Immortal.  I don't know why MacLeod hasn't told him yet.  Maybe my… the Highlander can't tell.  I wasn't sure for a long time, and I've had more experience sensing pre-Immies than he has.  Yeah, I should tell Joe.  It would be cruel not to.

Then I'll leave.  I'll catch a plane to Tibet and stay there until the pain goes away.


	8. Duncan

Title: Wings of the Morning--MacLeod

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning 8/18

Pairing: Duncan/Methos

Timeframe: Whenever, either before or ignoring Archangel

Summary:  I can't think of how to sum this up, but as Tritorella has so pointedly noted, these installments are so short it shouldn't matter

Warnings: slash, mush, gay-bashing Richie

Rating: G

Archive:  anywhere but just ask me first

Author's comments: I had a load of trouble writing Richie for this one… My apologies to those who like him, but I needed someone to play the baddie and Amanda didn't seem the type, so Richie got stuck with the part.

Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this.  I'm just having some fun with them.

++++++++++

My life is falling apart.  For a month, Methos and I were happy, and all that my happy world needed to shatter it is Richie walking in the door.

I never suspected that Richie might feel like that.  Homophobic.  The word is sour in my mind, on my tongue.  An ugly word, with an aura of hate.  It was smart of Methos to leave when he did, I think.  Dealing with my choice in lovers will be hard enough for Richie without said lover there.  

Richie's not interested in talking.  Correction: he's very interested in talking.  He's not interested in discussing.

"I can't believe it!" he shouts.  "Mac, you're, you were…" He shakes his head.  "I can only try and think you were just going along with him."  He frowns.

"Richie," I say quietly, "why are you so upset about this?"

"Because I can't stand the thought that my teacher is a queer," he replies sharply.  "I'm going home now, Mac.  It's been a long day."  He leaves, and I listen sadly to the sound of his motorcycle revving up and growling away through the streets of Paris.  

I hear Joe's footsteps behind me, and his hand comes down on my shoulder.  "Aw, man, Mac," my Watcher says.

"I don't get it," I say.  "I never thought Richie could be like that.  Never thought he'd be so . . . judgmental.  So disgusted."

Joe sighs, sitting down on a barstool next to me.  "I don't know what to tell you.  I guess it's hard to guess who will be okay with it and who won't."

"I don't want this to pull Richie and me apart.  He's . . . he's like a son to me.  What can I do?" I shake my head despairingly.  "Joe, did you see his face?  He was disgusted."

Joe shrugs.  "I don't know why you're asking me for advice, Mac.  You're the one who's been around for centuries.  I've only been hanging out on this planet fifty years.  You're supposed to have all the answers, not me."

"You learn more from life, Joseph.  I'd say you're a wiser man than me any day."

"I ain't had any experience with stuff like this, Mac."

"Neither have I!" I exclaim loudly.  Then, quieter: "I'm scared of losing Richie."

Joe is silent for a few minutes, then he says, "I don't think this is something you can solve overnight.  Why don't you go back to the barge and talk this over with Methos?  If anyone's ever dealt with something like this, it's probably him."

I nod.  Yes, Methos will know.  My lover is a smart man, he'll know what to do.

I can envision him, sprawling on the couch with a beer bottle, waving it for emphasis as he lays out a perfect plan that will show Richie how right it is for me to be with my lover, without hurting Richie's feelings.  Methos claims not to have all the answers, but he's got an awful lot of them.

"Thank you, Joe," I say.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

I drive back to the barge with my heart lightening.  Yes, Methos will know what to do.

I really do love him a lot.  It's not just the sex, although he's far more sensual than you'd think, looking at him.  It's . . . just being with him.  Waking up with my arms around him, performing routine household chores with him, he gives everything a sort of added . . . life, I guess.  Vivacity.  Times we tell jokes, funny stories, keeping up a steady competition to see who has the funniest one to share.  Once, I made him laugh so hard beer squirted out his nose.  He complained endlessly, of course, but the sight was more than cute enough to make up for it.  And, of course, that odd bond between us.  It's clouded right now, muted, but I'm not surprised.  That happens, when one or the other of us is feeling upset, and I'm more than upset enough about Richie to obscure the sense of the link.  

I hope Richie can come to terms with us.  I'd hate to lose my student, I really would.  He's very close to me.  But—and I hate having to make this decision—If Richie can't accept it, I'll lose him before I'll lose Methos.  Richie may be the son of my heart, but Methos is so much more than just my heart.  He's everything I've ever wanted or needed in life.

I pull up near the barge and get out of the car, certain that Methos will for once have the answer.


	9. Announcement

Okay, I've actually continued this story, but I'm having trouble with the new upload protocols fanfiction.net is putting up.  As a result, this story is continued at my personal website.  You can find it here:  www.geocities.com/figlia_della_musica/DancingSword.html.  Thank you for your understanding.

~~Figlia Della Musica~~


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